


How Bright She Burns

by Tadeusz



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Combined Canon, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Multiple Wardens, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tadeusz/pseuds/Tadeusz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair would have tried harder not to fall in love with Tarrie Mahariel if he had realized that she was already involved with another man. Even then, he probably would have failed.</p><p>Garlan  Cousland, on the other hand, is rather perplexed by Alistair's assumptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Bright She Burns

**Author's Note:**

> Garlan Cousland is my Warden, and Tarrie Mahariel belongs to k0daavzii! You can find her on tumblr over [here](http://im-the-swamp-witch.tumblr.com).

Firelight danced across Tarrie’s face, and Alistair could not pull his gaze away. She was arguing with Sten, jaw set firm, eyes alight. He was not close enough to hear more than snatches of their conversation, but he could see Tarrie’s expression, shifting rapidly to keep pace with her thoughts. He loved her when she was like this, stubborn and sure and willing to fight to prove it.  Her dark brows drew together, then arced up, then furrowed again. For once, her hands were not still: they darted about like a pair of angry finches, pausing only to tuck her brown hair behind her ears when it slipped free and into her field of vision. Her voice had risen, frustrated, insistent, but had not peaked to shouting—she yelled rarely, and never at her companions.

He loved her when she was brimming with glee, too, and when she was tired and broken and scrambling to hide her sorrow. Still, there was something special about the fire in her. Even when she questioned her beliefs, she was confident in her willingness to consider something new, to perhaps admit that she had been wrong.

Falling for all of that—for her—had happened quickly, before their ragtag band even left Lothering. The rose had begun to die before he had mustered the courage to give it to her, and so he had dried it with help from Leliana. To have a keepsake of something beautiful, he insisted, that was all. Leliana smirked and spared Tarrie a glance, but said nothing. He was grateful, that she had not teased him or whispered of it to anyone else.

The night could have crept on and on, with him watching the debate from afar, but he heard King’s panting, and Garlan’s footsteps close behind. Flushing, Alistair jerked his gaze away from Tarrie and trained it on King, who had flopped down in front of him.

 “You would think Sten would consider himself proven wrong by now,” Garlan said as he dropped to sit on the ground next to Alistair.

“What are they on about now?” Alistair asked, tone light, though his stomach twisted. Half the camp had been watching Sten and Tarrie, but he was the only one who was watching her with _love_. In front of the man who had her heart. He wondered if Garlan could tell. It had to be obvious: his heart hammering, ‘ _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ ’ every she met his eyes;  his hands hesitating and lingering near hers when she passed him a bit of food; his willingness to follow her with his whole being into towers rife with abominations, into traps laid by assassins, to the very edge of the world and home again.

He touched the leather pouch at his hip, and the familiar shape of the rose beneath the soft material. He had carried it delicately, so carefully. Despair had driven him to destroy precious things before. Not this time. He had spent more time than he cared to admit holding it, willing his fingers to close around it, to crumble it to dust. He could not. Just because something beautiful could not be his did not mean that it could not exist.

“Whether or not women can be warriors. Again.” Garlan rolled his eyes.

Alistair ran his fingers through the short, coarse fur on King’s back. Garlan was watching Tarrie and Sten, arms folded, so Alistair risked looking at them again as well. Guilt bled through the edges of his affection, now. He would never try to woo her away from him, of course. They were his friends, his brother and sister in arms, and they so clearly made one another happy. Alistair wouldn’t stand in the way of that, though he bitterly wished that _he_ had been the one to meet her before Ostagar. How different things might have been.

Of course, if Garlan was the sort of man she would fall far, Alistair wasn’t sure he would have ever stood a chance. Though he wouldn’t have guessed Garlan was what women found handsome, that must have been the case. He was just four years Alistair’s senior, but he was more… what was the word? Rugged? He certainly looked older than his years. His dark hair was perpetually in a high braid, and his beard rivaled Duncan’s. His nose was prominent, cheekbones high, dark eyes always alive with thoughts in an otherwise impassive face. Maybe _that_ was what appealed to her. The whole stoic hero persona. Maker knew Alistair would never achieve it, even if he was inclined to try.

Though his fellow Wardens had never outright said that they were lovers, it was clear enough. Garlan wasn’t stern, but he was serious: expression always pensive, eyes piercing, and a mouth that often smiled or chuckled, but rarely laughed. Tarrie shattered that shell every time she was around him. The slightest raise of an eyebrow or a single word of some inside joke could set Garlan guffawing and strip the solemnness from his face, replacing it with a burst of glee and light for a moment before the weight of the Blight settled over him once more.

There was an easy rapport between them, one Alistair (or anyone else) would never have predicted a Dalish elf and a human nobleman could have shared. In battle, they seemed to sense one another’s movements. Tarrie always at Garlan’s back, charging down any bandits who might slip through his defenses. Garlan appearing at her side like a ghost any time Darkspawn threatened to overwhelm her. One early morning, Alistair had stumbled upon Tarrie helping Garlan braid his hair. One evening, he’d seen them, exhausted, fall asleep sitting up, her head on his shoulder and his head resting atop hers. He’d watched them slip into Garlan’s tent together more than once, heard the low murmur of their voices before he had slunk into his own tent, not wanting to hear whatever was coming next.

If only he had guessed sooner, before they had left Lothering, and saved himself the heartache. Watching their Joinings should have been enough. Garlan had been wild with terror, not at the prospect of undergoing the same himself, but for Tarrie as she writhed and gasped and choked back screams. And when Garlan’s turn came, Tarrie hovered close by, still weak from her own ordeal. “If he dies, I will kill you,” she snarled, crouching near Garlan and glaring up at Duncan with a hand already on her sword.

“Do you think we should step in and take her side?” Alistair asked, shoving away those thoughts. Dwelling would not do.

Garlan shook his head. “I did, once, and she thanked me for trying, but told me to butt out because I didn’t know what in the void I was talking about.”

Alistair laughed. “I guess that’s fair enough. Definitely sounds like something she would say.” A beat of silence, and he heard himself say, “You are a very lucky man.”

Garlan’s eyes cut over to Alistair and furrowed his brows. “’Lucky’ isn’t the word I would use for any of us, given our situations,” Garlan said. “Fortunate to not be dead, at best.”

“No! I mean…” Alistair tilted his head towards Tarrie, no small amount of horror washing over him as the words darted out. “Her. She’s special. Just… be good to her, alright?”

Garlan’s shoulders drew back and he stared at Alistair, bemused, before his eyebrows leapt quite nearly to his hairline. Turning away, Alistair cursed himself. He was a fool. This was the part where Garlan put it all together and turned on him, or maybe just began to pity him him. His knuckles turned white, nails leaving bright red crescents in the heels of his palms. Anything, anything would be better than these endless seconds of waiting for—

Laughter. Not cruel and derisive. A full belly laugh, like someone had told the grandest joke in the world. When Alistair looked up again, Garlan was holding the side of his fist to his mouth, as though he could stop the sound from escaping.

Alistair’s blush deepened, and he shot to his feet. King barked once, leaping up at the sudden motion as though he sensed danger. “You don’t have to mock me,” he snapped. “You— You! Forget I said anything!”

There she was, across the clearing, watching them. Her fight with Sten was forgotten. She took several brisk steps in their direction, dry grass crunching beneath her feet. Then, she looked at something over Alistair’s shoulder, nodded, and halted. It had been, Alistair realized with no surprise, Garlan she’d been looking at. Whatever he had signaled, she trusted his judgment enough to let them be.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Garlan said, patting the grass where Alistair had been sitting.

Alistair hesitated, eyes narrowed. “Whatever else you might think of me, I’m not stupid.”

“Maybe I’m laughing at you a _bit_ ,” Garlan amended, “but not how you’re thinking, I swear.” His eyes were gleaming, and Alistair was taken aback by how much younger he looked when he wasn’t busy being… well, dreary. “Come, sit back down. There’s no need for us to behave like Sten and Tarrie.”

Alistair inched back to the ground, still suspicious. Garlan watched him, waiting for him to speak, and Alistair bit his tongue, determined to (for _once)_ not dig himself into an even deeper hole with foolish, thoughtless words. Assured that there was no threat after all, King threw himself back to the earth and rolled onto his back, graciously offering his stomach for scratches. When no one complied, he gave one short, aggravated ‘boof.’ Garlan gave in, inching closer to pat his stomach. Alistair’s arms were glued to his chest, his only defense against whatever cutting remark Garlan was plotting in the lengthening silence.

Tarrie kept glancing in their direction. Trying not to notice her was more difficult than Alistair was willing to admit.

“Alistair,” Garlan said, and put a reassuring hand on his knee for a moment before he drew it away again. Laughter sparked just behind his smile, and Alistair’s shoulders tensed. “There’s nothing like that between Tarrie and I. She’s very, very dear to me, and I love her, but I’m not _in_ love with her. Do you get my meaning?”

Hope, fragile and tender, bloomed for the first time in months. “I think so,” Alistair said, slowly. “You mean, you and she are just…”

“She’s like a sister to me,” Garlan said.

The feeling in Alistair’s chest swelled and warmed his cheeks. His fingers tingled, and his legs suddenly felt full of pent up energy, though he managed to stay sitting, conscious of Tarrie’s attention—though she was still too far away to hear what they were saying. He hoped. He took a deep breath, letting his ribcage expand. If he didn’t give this sudden delight somewhere to go, he was sure he would burst. “And she… you’re just a brother to her, right?”

“Absolutely,” Garlan said. Through his own fog of happiness, Alistair realized he didn’t think he had ever seen Garlan smile for so long at one time.

Alistair realized how huge his own grin was. He tried to tame it, to school his face to casual neutrality. His lips twitched traitorously. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “as her honorary brother, you happen to know what might make her see someone as… more than a brother? Has it, I don’t know, come up when she’s been in your tent?”

“Whatever she’s told me, she did so in confidence. I won’t break her trust. That said,” Garlan paused, and blood rushed in Alistair’s ears. It was too much to hope for, entirely too much—, “you ought to talk to her about it yourself. Sooner, rather than later. Maker knows we could all use a bit of joy lately.”

“But is she—”

“ _Alistair_. I don’t know how to make myself clearer!”

“Right, right,” Alistair said, scrambling to his feet. “I’m going to go, I need to—”

Tarrie was staring at them in earnest now. Bewilderment was written across her face, unable to fathom what topic they might have broached that would have sent Alistair through such a wide emotional arc at such speed.

She glanced at Garlan, who caught her eye and shrugged. Her eyes narrowed. “Cousland! What have you done?” She began to march toward him, a storm unto herself. Maker help him, Alistair could not have adored her more.

“Wait right there,” Alistair called. “I need to talk to you!” Tarrie paused, face softening as she looked at him. How had he never noticed? Months! And it had never occurred to him!

He imagined he must look at her the same way.

“Well, Garlan, I’ll be- I’ve got to—”

Garlan waved him off. “Go. I think you two have kept one another waiting long enough.”

It took everything Alistair had in him to not break into a dead sprint to Tarrie’s side, but he managed to contain himself. After a single step, he turned to look at Garlan. “I can see why she loves you. You make a good brother.”

That took Garlan by surprise. His grin lingered, but he stopped petting King and just looked at Alistair for a moment, until King huffed a sigh and hauled himself to his feet and shoved his head into Garlan’s chest with a half-hearted growl. As he started to scratch King’s neck, just under his collar, he began to answer, but Alistair’s patience had frayed and finally broken. He was hurrying towards Tarrie, bounding more than walking, hand already reaching for the rose he’d kept at his side all these months.


End file.
